


saunter vaguely downwards

by townpariah



Category: Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Good Omens References, Hiddlesworth, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-19 23:41:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7382248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/townpariah/pseuds/townpariah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Good Omens AU where Chris is Crowley, an Angel who did not so much Fall as Saunter Vaguely Downwards, and Tom is Aziraphale, book collector extraordinaire and gayer than a treeful of monkeys on nitrous oxide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	saunter vaguely downwards

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this for posterity because I've been clearing out my old blogs since last night and wanted to save everything in one place. This premise wasn't originally intended for Hiddlesworth but I thought Tom really fit the bill for Aziraphale. This was written not in my usual style but in what I would like to think as a style that mirrors the book (Good Omens)! Let me know what you think!

 

 

“Many people, meeting Aziraphale for the first time, formed three impressions: that he was English, that he was intelligent, and that he was gayer than a treeful of monkeys on nitrous oxide.”

  
― [Terry Pratchett](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1654.Terry_Pratchett), [Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/4110990)

 

* * *

Traffic is horrid as usual, but Chris makes it to the bookshop with five minutes to spare before Tom is able to give him a stern telling-to. If there’s something Chris isn’t too keen on, it’s Tom’s Look of Disapproval. He’s perfected it over the millennia, using it only when the situation calls for it usually when Chris is late to arrive, or if Chris rigs the elections in someone’s favour. As it stands, elections are a long way off, and Chris is, shockingly, on time for their bi-weekly tête à tête. 

Chris parks the Bentley in front of the shop, ignoring the sign that says _parking is reserved for customers,_ and lets himself in without preamble. 

The little bell above the door tinkles in greeting as he enters and he casts his gaze about for the proprietor. Tom is nowhere to be seen, the cluttered counter at the end of the room, visible even from the door, empty of his presence. 

It’s lunch hour which may explain the lull in business; no stragglers stumbling in from the nearby university, or young lecturers smelling of patchouli looking for first edition hardbacks, or tourists wandering in asking for directions to the nearest mall, which is, Chris would agree, the worst of the lot.

He _loathes_ tourists. 

Sunlight comes in through the high windows, and Chris is quickly assaulted by the musty scent of worn spines. 

The layout of the bookshop reminds him of a bowling alley: long and narrow, bigger on the inside once you enter the door. Shelves upon shelves of books flank his shoulders, with no discernible order to their arrangement, teetering high above his head, stretching all the way up to the ceiling. 

There are framed maps on the wall – maps of London in the 18th century from when Tom had indulged in a brief affair with cartography.

Every where in the shop there are remnants of an age long past: an old rotary phone sits collecting dust in a corner next to a record player from the 70s, a rapier from the Spanish Inquisition makes its home in the umbrella stand. 

There are bowls of caramel candies everywhere, Tom’s favourite, braided quilts over the hunter green chair behind the counter, the mantel behind it filled with an assortment of bric-a-brac: doilies, a vase of quills, rows of black and white photographs and ornate pots filled with bright patches of half-finished sewing. And over everything – the pervasive smell of time. 

Chris thinks of his own flat, hardly decorated with purely utilitarian furnishings. A modern man, he’d like to call himself. _Minimalist_. But really, he’s just lazy. He can’t be bothered remembering to keep souvenirs of the places he’s been, much less pick out his own furniture from a catalogue. 

And as much as he’s developed a taste for human interests over the years*, Chris doesn’t quite understand Tom’s love for books. It’s Tom’ greatest dream to collect all the rare and obscure books in the world before the Apocalypse, and the bookshop is only there to supplement this hobby. He hasn’t actually sold a book, not since Germany annexed Austria, and those attempting to pluck a title off the shelf are met with milk-curdling glowers or a raised eyebrow; the shop is simply somewhere for him to store his collection. 

Chris takes a random book from the shelf and rifles through it. When he closes it with a thud, a plume of dust rises up from the crinkling pages, making him sneeze. When he looks up, Tom is there, one hand on the banister, on the last step of the stairs leading up to the second floor where he keeps his bed and kitchenette. He’s dressed in white. Which is typical. Not a hair out of place, and impeccable as ever – also typical. 

Chris feels his mouth stretch in a smirk – another human affectation. He really needs to stop hanging round casinos and gambling dens. Even his accent has been compromised. He’s gone _native_. 

“You’re on time,” Tom says, sounding more amused than surprised. 

“Your lack of faith is worrying,” Chris tells him, to which Tom simply shrugs before plucking the book from his grip and leaving it on the top shelf. None of his books are in mint condition but they seem to have survived the test of time. 

Tom hates it immensely when Chris disrupts the haphazard order he’s found them in which makes Chris often the recipient of his Look of Disapproval. Lately, Chris is getting more used to it, and he’s found he doesn’t really mind as long as Tom still invites him for tea, afterwards.

“Turn the sign over at the door, I don’t want any visitors,” Tom says before turning round and taking the stairs. Chris goes to do just that before he realises it’s an order, and smiles wryly as he locks up before following Tom up the creaking stairs. 

The second floor is even less tidy: a lumpy mattress in a corner surrounded by piles of books and an old television set plugged into the wall. Tom’s computer is from the Middle Ages, slow and plasticky and cheap, which could explain why he never answers any of Chris’s e-mails. He’s terribly old fashioned to a fault; he still uses his old mobile phone from 2003 and Chris has also heard him pray, a few times, in Old Tongue. 

Tom can afford much better furnishings but Tom, being of Light and Goodness, Angel of the Eastern Gate and All That, seems to think squalor is the only way to live. _Heaven help him._ It explains why he’s so lean; he subsists solely on a diet of coffee and biscuits. His wardrobe consists of purely light colours, arranged from light to even lighter gradients, half of which are bought from secondhand shops because he doesn’t like to ‘indulge’ the way Chris does. 

Chris makes himself comfortable in one of the stools as Tom sets about to pouring him coffee. “Have you read the news?” Tom asks him, pulling out sandwiches from his mini-fridge. 

Chris shrugs one shoulder, transfixed by the steady movements of Tom’s hands. Tom has kept this form as long as Chris can remember, right out of the Garden when Chris had been a serpent just looking to make trouble and Tom had brandished a broadsword and great white wings. 

Over time, Chris has learned to appreciate the subtleties of human anatomy. Whereas before he only knew how to destroy – to wage war, and spread dissent – now he can enjoy the finer details of God’s design: the jut of Tom’s hip, for example, or the shape of his ribs. The fine brushstroke of his eyelashes, the veins on the back of his hands – the elegant curve of his neck. 

“I try not to read the news,” Chris tells him, taking a sip of his coffee. He takes a hungry bite of his cold sandwich. “Seeing as it only makes me realise how inadequate I am at my job. It’s this whole free will lark, I think. It’s given humans imagination, which we, Beings of An Otherworldly Nature, sorely lack. They find creative ways to make themselves miserable, humans, and I’m not only talking about social media.” 

“Oh, I’m pretty certain _you_ have enough imagination,” Tom tells him – his best attempt at making Chris feel better over the whole situation. He pats him awkwardly on the forearm. “Remember small pox? Aren’t you still getting credit for that?” 

Chris smiles, slightly, properly chastised. “How goes the business?” he asks, making small talk, pulling the last dregs of his drink. 

“Business is slow, as usual,” Tom replies with a sigh. He throws himself at his reading chair with a dramatic flourish that’s downright enviable, and probably a product of spending too much time around Chris. Tom props his feet on ottoman crowded with a week’s worth of laundry. The man was a slob though he didn’t look it at first glance. 

“You do know I don’t really sell books, right?” he says. 

“Could have fooled me,” says Chris. “You’ve set up shop near a university. I’d think you were ready for some patrons.” 

“It’s only – only _idiots_ that come through the door, really,” Tom tells him, rolling his eyes. He looks repentant as soon as he says it, throwing his arms up with a frustrated huff. 

“Tourists giving you trouble?” Chris asks him, commiserating. He’s got some stories of his own he won’t mind sharing even when he isn’t properly shitfaced. Chris misses the feudal era; those had been much simpler times. People kept to themselves and there was none of this _invading your land_ business. 

“Don’t even get me started,” Tom says in a dejected tone, rubbing his forehead and frowning. Chris finishes his sandwich in three short swallows before touching Tom’s shoulder consolingly – an odd gesture for a demon as he’s unaccustomed to giving people comfort. But he’s done some stranger things over the last few centuries. 

Just last week, he’d found himself doing Tom’s groceries, and the week before that Chris had accompanied him to a symposium in Essex where they got hopelessly lost in the maze of streets, ate dubious food off kiosks, and recalled the Battle of Hastings with some degree of nostalgia. 

They’ve known each other the longest – enemies of course, since the beginning of Time, working for opposing sides of the fence, but Tom’s company is a welcome reprieve from the dour-faced third-rate Agents from Below the great Beast sends Chris’s way to check up on him occasionally.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” Chris says, remembering the cause of his visit. Tom looks at him with a raised eyebrow waiting for him to finish, and Chris holds up a finger to prolong the agony. If there’s anything Tom loves besides books, coffee, and the Sunday crossword, it’s _surprises_ – all the more if the surprise is for him although the last time Chris had called up his old friend Famine, there had been some Very Unkind Words. 

“One second,” he says, then takes the stairs two at a time, the stairs thumping under his shoes. The surprise is in the passenger seat of the Bentley, covered in gift wrapping and held together by a flimsy red string. 

Chris shuts the door with a flick of the wrist, catching a glimpse of himself in the chrome finish of his car: tailored black suit, of course, and a black silk tie. He pushes his sunglasses up over his head before stepping back into the ill-lit warmth of the bookshop. 

Tom hasn’t moved from his reading chair, his legs crossed primly, his arm propped up on the armrest as he rested his chin on his fist. Chris tosses the present at him, and Tom catches it mid- lunge before it drops to the floor. He gives Chris That Look before carefully untying the string and unwrapping the present without fanfare. It’s the book he’s spent over decades searching for – _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch._ The last surviving copy in the world. 

A hush comes over the room as Tom flips quietly through the pages, reading random passages to himself. The spine is a dusty brown and the pages are water-spotted and worse for wear which is why Chris had taken great pains to ensure he won’t mishandle it. Hence the wrapping paper. 

When Tom looks up from his book, he’s got a soft smile on his face, the same smile he often wears whenever he teases Chris about there still being a little bit of Good left in him. 

“That doesn’t come cheap, you know,” Chris reminds him, hunkering down on Tom’s desk and crossing his arms. He should know its exact and true cost – he’d traveled to Bogota just to procure the damn book, and he still has hives from the underground tomb. 

Tom’s smile falls like ice cream melting in the shade, and there it is: “I’m not inviting any of your friends over for drinks, Chris. You know what happened last time.” 

Famine, Chris remembers. Tom never makes him forget.

  
“That’s not at all what I’m asking,” Chris says, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. He lets his eyes sweep over the length of Tom’s body, from his face all the way down to his feet and then back up to his face again to look him carefully in the eye. 

Tom can’t miss his meaning – no simpleton ever would.

“Oh,” says Tom in a soft voice. And then: “ _Oh!_ ” And if Tom had been human, he’d have the decency to blush to the back of his ears – but neither of them is, they’re of the same angel stock though Chris had enough common sense to, not fall from Grace as the texts would oft describe his descent from Heaven, but saunter vaguely downwards. 

Tom sets the book aside and stands to his full height. He still feels guilt over this, Chris knows, but Tom will do anything in exchange for rare and hard to find books. It’s part of their Arrangement, totally in keeping with Chris’ terms. (Humans loved to fornicate, and it’s one of those leisurely activities Chris enjoys only with Tom.) 

Tom nods, once, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. “No,” Chris says, catching Tom’s hand in his and squeezing gently. “Let me do it.” 

Tom lets out an explosive snort. “Really?” he says, lifting an eyebrow, and raises his arms when Chris smirks again. Chris starts with the buttons of Tom’s shirt, then follows with his belt which drops with a clink to the floor. 

When he finishes with Tom, his clothes are in a puddle around his feet. Tom steps out of them and shivers, naked and pale as a fish in the soft light of the room. 

Chris admires his calves, the leanness of his whole body, the dusky nipples the size of small coins and the long-fingered hands, before lifting Tom by the back of the thighs and hefting him up onto the desk to have his wicked way with. 

They’ve figured out this whole sex thing a few decades ago, and it’s all Chris can think about ever since, when thoughts of Tom alone in his bookshop cross his mind. 

Tom’s elbow knocks over a stack of books in the corner but Chris doesn’t give him time to complain before he seizes Tom’s mouth in a rough dirty kiss, full of tongue and teeth, his hand cradling the back of Tom’s head so he could lick into Tom’s mouth at the right angle. It isn’t long before he’s undoing his belt and freeing his hard cock, rubbing it against the crease of Tom’s thigh to make Tom jerk up against him in response. 

“You’re the absolute _devil_ ,” Tom mutters, with some chastising but Chris just laughs and licks a stripe from Tom’s sternum to his collarbone before giving him a solid bite sure to bruise the next day. “That’s very flattering, sweetheart, but I only work for Him.” 

Tom laughs. 

The floorboards creak rhythmically as the desk thumps against the wall in rapid succession – _thud thud thud_. Chris likes to fuck because he’s good at fucking, never mind that it’s a totally human invention. He knows he’s good at it because of the face Tom makes in bliss: the trembling of his whole body, the reflexive way his hips rise up to meet every thrust – and the soft panting in Chris’s ear, the sheen of unshed tears in Tom’s eyes from undiscovered pleasures. Humans have always been a slave to their baser instincts, and Chris is starting to see why. Maybe he’s spent too long in human form. 

Still, Tom’s a vision to behold: his toes curl as he tucks his feet in, and he locks his ankles around Chris’s back as he clutches Chris’s biceps like a lifeline. He comes with a ragged breath, head tilted back, eyes closed, and Chris comes too, inside him, sullying him with every last drop, filling him with come. He rides out the last waves, intent on keeping Tom underneath him, pinning him down with his solid bulk. 

Eventually, when there’s nothing left to give, Chris slumps on top of him, bracing his arms on either side of Tom to wipe the sweat off his brow with a thumb. Tom’s hairline is receding but then it’s always been that way for the last decade, more out of human preference than by design.  
Chris presses a kiss to his forehead before pulling out and giving Tom’s ass a smarting slap. 

Tom groans, swatting at him, peeling sheaves off paper plastered to his sweaty back. When he sits up, there’s a post-it note glued to his arm which he plucks off and flicks ineffectively at Chris. 

“You always make us do it on the desk,” he complains as he crouches on the floor to pull on some clothes. “When that thing is perilously close to breaking! One of these days you will have to buy me a new desk, and it’s going to be expensive and you’re going to regret it.” 

“ _Hey_ ,” Chris says, once he sees Tom reach for his underwear – saggy briefs that, really, no self- respecting Angel of the Lord should be caught dead in. Jesus Christ. “I’m not finished with you, hey. Hands on the desk. Underwear off!” 

“Really now,” Tom says, unimpressed, but he follows suit though with some degree of grumbling. He hops around in an oblong shape to dislodge his underwear from one ankle – funny, what Chris finds attractive – before arranging himself on the desk: knees settling a width apart, his ass titled up in the air, his elbows down on the desk, head tipped to one side to look over his shoulder. 

Chris feels a slice of hot lust cut sharply through his thoughts as he goes down on his knees, facing Tom’s back. 

Chris spreads him open with the pads of his thumbs, watching as dribbles of come slide down his puffy opening. Then he extends his tongue out for a taste. He has to close his eyes to hold back a groan, resting his cheek against the small of Tom’s back, running his fingers in feathery light strokes down his thighs. 

Above him, Tom makes a soft keening noise. “You bastard,” he pants. “You utter prick-faced bastard.” 

“You like my face,” Chris reminds him cheekily. “And my prick.” 

That earns him a painful swat on the head. “Chris, look,” Tom tries to say while Chris keeps licking at him methodically, “I understand we’ve developed Very Specific and Human Needs*** but I doubt this is very hygienic and will you please put your tongue back where _unnnngh_ –” 

“Yes?” Chris prompts, voice muffled due to the proceedings. “Where did you say you wanted my tongue?” 

Tom swats at him again, though this time he does it with a heavy and very large book that lands squarely on the side of Chris’s head. 

Later when they’ve finished, Tom will apologise and invite him for drinks, and Chris will feign pain from the injury so Tom will feel around for bruising on his head. Much later, Chris will actually need to take Advil for the resulting hangover, lose his shoe in the process of undressing for Fucking Round Two, and accidentally spill coffee all over Tom’s First Edition of Oscar Wilde’s _The Importance of Being Earnest,_ which will inevitably teach him the true extent of an angel’s Wrath. 

Even later, Chris will get caught up in a complicated affair involving the Anti- Christ, some nuns, the End of Time as We Know It, and a group of maudlin bikers all named after the Four Horsemen (one retired), but that doesn’t come till much much later, after he’s had his sixth coffee and after more rounds of acrobatic Fucking. 

 

* * *

 

*Chris has developed a love of reality television. Other things he likes that are of completely human invention: red wine, bespoke suits,snakeskin shoes, the band Queen, surfing, The Sopranos and miniature Kit Kat bars you can fit in your pocket. Things he doesn’t like: traffic, teenagers, and overlong queues.

 

*** These Very Specific and Human Needs are astonishing, in part because Chris only gets the inkling to mate (very) vigorously with Tom. He is not attracted to anyone else, barring Tom in his actual Angelic Form. Desire is still new to him, like a pair of pants bought last minute at the shop before closing. It creases in the corners and is saggy around the ankles but it’s not, when it comes down to it, that of a terrible fit. Chris enjoys these Needs as much as he possibly can before the End is upon them. Also, he likes keeping Tom on his toes. Also, he likes to fuck him in many different ways, in many different places just to keep things interesting: in the bookshop, in the Bentley, in the car park, bent over Tom’s desk, against the bookshelves, on the carpet while the news is on, against the wall, in the shower and so on... (in Churches) (in the confession booth) (once, in a movie theatre) (another time in the men’s room of the Louvre). 


End file.
